The Dead Killer
by Jambammer
Summary: Dead bodies are being found, but the incriminating prints match those who died before them. Watson's just trying to blog about normal life.
1. Blog Entry: August 8, 2010

August 8, 2010

I've stopped addressing my blog entries as Sherlock seems to think it's idiotic. 'Little girls keep diaries about their feelings, grown men take notes about facts.' Not that he knows anything about feelings. He does have a point though; this is only something I've been keeping up because I have to. It's supposed to help me "adjust" to normal life.

What is "normal" life? Certainly not my life, not with a flatmate like Sherlock, and today was just another reminder of that.

I suppose I should start from the beginning.

Today started out as what you might classify as "normal." We were out of milk and eggs, which wouldn't be so odd if either of us cooked more than on occasion. I noticed an odd smell about the place, but Sherlock swears it was my imagination. Sometimes it's simply better not to ask.

The eggs we could live without, but milk? I headed out to pick some up while Sherlock stayed at the flat and did... whatever it is he does. For once, the machine didn't argue with me and I was able to complete my purchase without an incident. With my milk and air freshener (I have a feeling that smell's only going to get worse. Sherlock's going to have to deal with the _wonderfully fresh_ scent of pine instead) in the bag, I started back.

It rained. Still normal, though unpleasant when having to walk. Lately I've kept my distance from cabs.

I had hardly gotten in the door when Sherlock started speaking a mile a minute. I had to tell him to slow down because I didn't follow, and he looked at me like I'm an idiot.

Still normal at this point. To him, everyone's an idiot.

"There's been a murder!" He exclaimed, far too excited than he ought to have been as he tied on his scarf. I might have been a bit too – for a new case, that is. Sitting around the flat gets a bit dull. "Come along, John!" Sherlock had practically bounded out the door.

"Hang on, the milk!" I quickly grabbed it from the bag and started for the kitchen.

He was back, and grabbed it from me. When Sherlock Holmes is anxious or excited, I dare anyone to try to slow him down.

"Never mind the milk!" He slammed it down on the table, and once more bounded towards the door. "This is far more important!"

Would he be saying that if he had paid for it?

... Come to think of it, probably.

I owe Mrs. Hudson a thank you for putting it away while we were out.

This is the part where it starts to get sort of unusual, at least from how the majority of society lives.

Sherlock walked past the police detectives without so much as a word. Detective Inspector Lestrade must have told him to hold his tongue today. I don't know why he listened, but I saw the ghost of a smile that curved his mouth as we passed by certain people, namely Anderson.

The crime scene itself was a large building; a museum. The body had been placed in one of the new exhibits that was still under construction. Sherlock looked down at the limp form; a male, teenaged to mid twenties, light brown hair and average physical build. His clothing was torn and old; at first glance, I made him out to be homeless.

After shooing everyone away, he knelt down and began examination of the body. He motioned for me to do the same.

"What's with Anderson this time?" I couldn't help but ask.

Sherlock grinned. "Trouble with his wife. He has a scratch by his ear which I'd wager goes clear across his face. He's attempted to cover it with makeup, and poorly chosen; it's slightly darker than his actual skin tone."

"How do you know it's his wife?"

"The wound is too clean for it to be done with actual nails. People bite their nails or wear them down throughout the course of day to day life. These were acrylic nails. She brought him his lunch at the station last week; long and red," Sherlock answered, examining the hand of the man, whom I had noticed was missed all of his fingertips with the exception of his smallest finger. "What do you make of this?"

"Someone didn't want him to be identified?" I suggested, but Sherlock didn't seem to agree.

"If you wanted to hide the identity, you would cut off all the finger tips, or the whole hand," he replied. "Instead, both pinkys are left." He turned the mans head and pulled open his mouth. "All of his teeth are still in place."

"A trophy then?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock noted, but he still didn't seem convinced. "Touch his skin and clothing."

I did. "It's cold," I reported. "Like ice." I looked around the large, spacious room. "It shouldn't be... right?"

Sherlock nodded. "With the renovations, the air-conditioning is down. Even if it had been working, he should not be this cold. He was frozen, and then placed here. Look how he's lying; he obviously didn't die here."

The man was curled in a position as though he had simply fallen asleep. I got to my feet. He looked like a homeless person who had just wandered in off the street.

"Have anything?" Lestrade asked, approaching us.

"He's a wealthy man, despite his rags. His hands are smooth; he's probably never worked a day in his life. His hair is neatly trimmed, and he has a slight tan around his wrists. This suggests either a suit or a uniform worn on a daily basis. Given his athletic state, and the tattoo on the back of his neck, just below where a collar would be, I put him a student, final year of school," Sherlock explained. "An expensive school with uniforms. Rebellious yet not outwardly; likely just got self satisfaction from it. He has a slight paper cut on what's left of his thumb and index finger; he read a lot. This suggests that he studied. His right wrist has a rash where a watch probably was; he's allergic to metals, yet he cares about the time too much to take it off. If he's a dedicated student at a high end school, he's going to be missed."

Lestrade nodded. "I'll get missing persons reports from the last month. Because he was frozen we're not sure his time of death yet."

Sherlock is yelling about something, I had better get off and see what it is. I'll post the rest in a bit.

-Dr. John Watson


	2. Blog Entry: August 9, 2010

A/N: Wow, I can't believe all the alerts on this story. I'm absolutely blown away. I will try not to disappoint you, dear Sherlock fans! Though, just so you're all aware, I'm not British, (though I'd like to be) I'm Canadian. Sometimes the dialogue may sound more North American. I apologize, and feel free to correct me! I love learning the British way of speaking. I've always loved British media, and I'm hoping to move there someday.

* * *

August 9, 2010

I was right; that smell is getting worse. Sherlock seems to think the pine is worse though. I'm getting floral next time just for spite.

The deceased boy has been identified as Geoffrey Harrison. He went missing about three weeks ago, last seen at the private preparatory school he attended. Sherlock was right; Straight A student, never missed a class, studied for every exam. Only his close friends knew about the tattoo, and he had gotten it the day he could consent for it on his own.

Finger prints were found on the buttons doing up the shirt he had been dressed in, finger prints not his own.

"They must be the killer's then," I stated.

Sherlock shook his head. "They're female, and those of an older female. I high doubt that a teenage boy was killed by someone who could be his grandmother."

"Stranger things have happened," I pointed out, but Sherlock sat down in his chair with a faraway look in his eyes and his hands folded in front of his face.

He didn't say anything for a long time, so I decided to hunt for where his latest "experiment" was being kept. The cupboards brought no success. Giving up, I had sat down at my computer to blog, which is when I wrote the previous post.

It wasn't long before he was yelling, as I ended with last time.

"Chloe Jenkins!" He exclaimed. I just looked back. "She's a sixty four year old woman who's also missing! She lived in an apartment building not far from Geoffrey's prep school!"

"That could be coincidence," I reminded him, but Sherlock was already grabbing his coat.

"She was last seen on the same day, walking down the street where the boy was last seen," Sherlock grinned, slipping his other arm into the sleeve and fixing his collar. "Would you call that a coincidence?" An unlikely one, he was right. "Are you coming?"

"All right, sure," I grabbed my coat and slipped it on as we ran out the door. "Where are we going?" I asked as he flagged down a cab.

"Chloe's flat, we need to get an item with her finger prints," he explained to me as he gave the cab driver the address.

"You think the prints on the buttons are hers," I surmised. "You think she might be involved somehow?"

"Somehow," he answered vaguely. Inside his mind he likely had an idea of how things were piecing together, or at least a few theories. I wondered if it would kill him to let me in on some of them? I may not have his mind, but I'm not entirely thick either.

The rest of the ride was silent. Sherlock was lost in his own mind, and I waited for him to share. He didn't.

Her flat was on the second floor of a large building. I'm not quite sure how Sherlock managed to get in – with him, as I've said, it's sometimes better not to ask – but I soon had a text.

_Ring the buzzer._

_SH_

I did, and waited. He didn't answer, so I buzzed again.

"Sherlock!" I called, and finally the speaker crackled.

"John, get up here quickly!"

I did. I took the stairwell as the elevator was full. I'm not sure I've ever flown up stairs so quickly, but Sherlock had made it sound urgent.

"There's a new body," Sherlock announced almost gleefully as he opened the door.

There's more, but that was a very long day, it's now early morning and I've just gotten home. I have a feeling I'm not going to get much sleep later, judging by how quiet Sherlock's being, and the map he's got tacked to the wall. I'm taking the downtime to sneak off to bed. I'll type up more when I'm able to keep my eyes open.

-Dr. John Watson


	3. 2nd Blog Entry: August 9, 2010

A/N: My apologies! I meant for this to go up earlier, but I've been having terrible internet problems lately.

* * *

August 9, 2010

That damn violin. Normally – there's that word again – I don't mind it, but I do when it wakes me from a deep sleep. It's no good telling Sherlock to stop either. I tried. He ignored me.

Earlier, I left off with the discovery of the body in the missing women's living room. Not much happened until Lestrade arrived, so I'll start with that.

"Just like the boy," the Detective Inspector noted, looking down at the victim, a blonde woman I put to be middle thirties. "Homeless in appearance, missing the tops of each finger but the smallest, recently frozen." He looked to Sherlock. "Did you move her at all?"

Sherlock looked insulted. "I examined her. She's still how we found her."

Lestrade nodded. "I just needed to check, you know that." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What can you tell me about her?"

"She's not as wealthy as the first victim," Sherlock answered. "Her hair colour is a box colour. Women of money would always get it done professionally. Her hands are scarred from cuts and burns inflicted, suggesting she cooks often. Her skin smells of chemicals; she cleaned often. I'd say she was employed as a chef and maid. Recently separated from her spouse; you can see where her ring was. She left him, otherwise she'd still be wearing the ring."

"The killer could have taken it," I suggested. "Geoffrey was missing his watch, and they were both redressed."

"No," Sherlock disagreed, and knelt down beside the body. He raised her left hand for me to see. "She had a recent burn; it goes along most of her finger."

"If she'd been wearing her ring when it happened there would be a space," I caught on.

"I don't understand the purpose of cutting off their fingertips," Lestrade stated, and looked to Sherlock. "Do you have an idea?"

"An idea, yes," Sherlock answered, the way he does when he's following a thought in his head. He looked up when he noticed Lestrade and I were still looking at him. "What?"

"Would you mind sharing?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes," Sherlock answered plainly, putting on one of his gloves and picking up a glass from the table in the kitchen. "Get Chloe Jenkin's finger prints off of this and compare it to the buttons on the first victim's shirt; I believe you'll find that they match."

"The prints on this glass could belong to anyone," Lestrade argued, but he took it just the same and passed it off to his team.

"They'll belong to her," Sherlock stated. "She lived alone, and rarely, if ever, had company."

"How can you be sure?" I asked.

Sherlock pointed down the hall. "There's a guest room. There's a layer of dust on the bedside table and dresser. If you had people stay over regularly, wouldn't you keep up the room?"

As usual, Sherlock made a good point.

He decided it was time for us to leave, so the two of us walked out of the building and to the street. He didn't immediately flag down a cab as I had expected he would. Instead, he kept walking down the road.

I managed to pick up some chips from a store just before they shut down for the night.

"So what is your idea?" I asked between bites. They weren't the best I'd ever had, but certainly not the worst. "You do have one, right?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock answered, looking straight ahead as though he were looking for something to appear.

I popped another chip in my mouth and waited for him to answer. He didn't. "Well?"

"The prints on Geoffrey's shirt were planted," he finally explained. "When Lestrade gets the results back, every one of Chloe Jenkin's prints will be there, except for her smallest finger."

"You think Chloe Jenkins is dead then?" I asked.

"Of course she is." A smile spread along his face. "We've got a serial killer, John. Isn't it fantastic?"

Only he would find a serial killer fantastic.

He never did say where we were going. Suddenly he turned back to the road and waved down a cab, and we headed home.

As I've been writing this, he's set down his violin and stared at the map on the wall. I think he may have tacked up information about the victims too. Sometimes I wonder if he ever sleeps, or if his body's as much of a machine as his mind.

He's looking out the window. I'm guessing Lestrade's arrived which means something new has been found. I'll update later.

- Dr. John Watson


	4. Blog Entry: August 11, 2010

August 11, 2010

Two more victims have been found. This time they were sisters; Melanie and Elaine Smith. Melanie was 25, Elaine two years younger at 23. They were found the same as the others; curled up as though asleep, dressed homeless, recently frozen and missing the tops of their fingers. The victim found previous to them was identified as Odette Wilson. The finger prints redressing her were identified as Geoffrey's, and the prints on his buttons were as Sherlock had guessed; Chloe's.

He examined both victims. Elaine was left handed, and Melanie had scars from an attempted suicide a few years earlier. Elaine had a drinking problem, and Melanie had recently been dumped. He rattled off a list of reasons why, but I've been going nonstop for so long I can't recall them. I don't know how he can go like this. Maybe he really is not entirely human.

He just read that over my shoulder and scoffed. "Add this," he says, "It's perfectly simple to tell how one was dumped and one was a drinker. _You -_ italicize that - just don't observe. And you've got it wrong; Melanie was the drinker, Elaine was dumped."

It sounds more like a bad soap than a murder case. I don't know why he expects me to remember this; we've been working so much that I don't even remember if I had breakfast this morning.

Sherlock says yes, I did, two pieces of toast. At least I know that my health isn't being neglected too much.

I'm relocating to my bedroom to write in peace.

The sisters were found in a park, under a large tree. People walking by assumed they were merely asleep. It was only when a child noticed that the tops of their fingers were missing that someone clued in and the police were called to the scene. This is why there's the saying about assuming.

According to testing, Geoffrey was killed with arsenic that had been injected into his blood stream. The baffling thing was that there were no punctures anywhere on his body.

"It was obviously injected in one of his fingers!" Sherlock had stated. "The tops were removed after he had been dead for some time!"

Police have determined that he was likely killed the same day he disappeared. Odette had been reported missing three weeks ago. The two sisters were last seen a week ago, going out for an evening stroll. Testing hasn't come back yet for the others, but Sherlock is positive they were killed in the same way.

"We're looking at a serial killer!" He had exclaimed. "They have signatures. Every one of them. This one injects arsenic through the fingers, freezes the bodies, and later removes the fingers."

"Why leave the smallest?" I asked.

Sherlock was very still as though processing something I hadn't seen yet. It's horribly annoying when he does that and never explains. "I'm not sure. Not yet."

Just like he's not sure where that horrible smell is coming from. I have got to find his experiment and soon. I've got to use the freshener every time I come in. I've already used up the can I bought a couple days ago. If this continues, we're going to need to replace everything in the house just to completely get rid of the smell.

Sherlock's just burst in. "Another body found, same as the others. The murder weapon's been left this time. This is fantastic and will you stop typing, this is more important than your idiotic blog!"

Another long night ahead.

-Dr. John Watson


	5. Blog Entry: August 13, 2010

August 13, 2010

I can't figure out why Mrs. Hudson hasn't evicted us, or at least Sherlock, yet. Surely she knows about the _items_ he likes to keep, particularly in the refrigerator, but how can she stand _this?_ If I didn't know that he'd call my bluff, I'd threaten to move out. How can he stand it? He walks around as though the flat is perfumed with the smell of roses.

Actually no, that might actually bother him.

I'm not sure it quite registers with him. To Sherlock, everything is facts. Every sense is processed and turned into little facts he stores in his brain. To other people (I won't use the word normal) such as myself, it's transformed into emotions. Namely disgust.

Right, I suppose I should update you on the case and what's happened since I last wrote.

The first victim (yes, there was more than one once again) was found much farther than any of the other victims. Edgar Johnson, a twenty one year old male. Sherlock figured out that he was studying to be a medical doctor, and that he was failing. To save time and to spare you a headache, I won't go into the details of his deduction, though I believe part of it had to do with Edgar being a nail biter.

He was just the same as everyone else found so far. Homeless, frozen, and missing the tops of his fingers. The difference? A syringe was found next to him, empty of contents.

"Why leave it now?" I asked. "He's been dead for a couple weeks at least if the pattern's the same."

"The game's been changed," Sherlock answered lowly as we walked out of the building.

"Sorry, game?" I asked as Sherlock fished a small sheet of paper out of his pocket and held it out so that I could see.

"I found a note in his pocket," he replied.

"Did you show Lestrade?" I asked, but I should have known better.

"Nope," he answered, and before I could say anything, he launched into an analysis. "It's typed, arial font size twelve. Generic paper, could have come from anywhere," he explained, not talking to me as much as just needing to talk. "'I thought you needed another piece.' Piece, as in game piece. The killer's playing with us."

"There's no such thing as a regular murder when it comes to you, is there?" I couldn't help but ask.

"That would be dull," Sherlock replied, a small smirk tugging at his mouth.

We were halfway through dinner when Sherlock got a call about another body that was found. One day, we'll actually be able to finish a meal rather than having to leave the restaurant halfway through.

Anthony Wilson (no relation to Odette) was the first one found in his home, though he was the same as everyone else, and he too had a syringe found with him. His maid found him when she came in to clean as she does every day. According to her, she hadn't seen him in a week, but she assumed he had been away on a business trip as he often would just take off and not return for days. He had no family that she knew of.

A picture Sherlock found in a shoe in his closet says otherwise.

"He had a family once," Sherlock said, looking over the picture of three young children playing with a dog, "but he lost them somehow. He's tried to erase them from his life, yet he found he couldn't quite bring himself to throw away this picture. Look at the shoes, John. They're old, but barely worn. They've held the picture for so long that he wasn't able to wear the shoes anymore. He associated the two."

Lestrade's looking into it.

After we'd left, Sherlock handed me another note.

"He went by Tony, this is important," I read aloud. I looked to Sherlock who held no expression on his face. "Why would that be important?"

"I don't know," he replied, but he was well immersed in his mind, searching through theories and facts.

When we got back to the flat, Sherlock went straight to work on his collage of information about the case. The notes went up on the board after he'd examined them to be sure there were no fingerprints. I think he was expecting there not to be any, and he wasn't disappointed.

I just saw Mrs. Hudson walk by the doorway. I'm relatively certain she was wearing a gas mask.

Sherlock scratches at his head. "What's the _link_, John?" He looks over the pictures and information tacked up in front of him. "There has to be a link!"

"Uh..." A highly intelligent reply, I'm aware. "Did they all go missing around the same area?"

Sherlock's eyes dart about. "No." He sighs. "No, some were quite far apart. Some were found quite far apart as well."

He lies down on the sofa, closes his eyes and folds his hands. From here I can see the discolouration of a nicotine patch on his arm. Sometimes I think I should be monitoring how many of those he uses. He'll be quiet for a while, so I best sleep while I can. Maybe this is when he sleeps, and he only pretends to be thinking.

I wonder if Mrs. Hudson has an extra gas mask.

-Dr. John Watson


	6. Blog Entry: August 14, 2010

August 14, 2010

Sherlock was right. Not much of a surprise, but I _hate_ it when he's right about things like this. I had so hoped that he was wrong.

It's a game! It's a bloody _game!_ One that Sherlock is too eager to play.

_Literally_. People are _dying_ simply because someone else has a mind like Sherlock's. They don't care about the people, or the lives that are lost. All they care about is the thrill, the escape from _boredom._ It's sick. Death is a part of life, a part of life I have accepted. You have to when you're in the military. But death for the sake of _entertainment_? No. It's wrong.

Sherlock's loving this. He'll admit to it if you ask, but I don't need to. I know him, or as much as a person can know him. He's loving the puzzle, the clues left, the chase of it all.

Two more bodies were found. A couple this time, and they were found together, along with the syringes. Maxwell and Eve Benson, mid thirties. Maxwell was dark haired, Eve more of an auburn colour. Sherlock deemed this highly important. Why is this important? Their hair was coloured that way after death. None of the other victims' hair was touched.

They were found in a park, but a camera had been left with them. Sherlock went through the pictures, naturally. There was one taken the day of their disappearance, or what the police believe to be the day of their disappearance. Both of them were blonde.

"Look at them," Sherlock said to me, holding the camera out. "The smiles are forced. They look tired."

"So? So does most of London," I answered, but there was more to it that I didn't see.

He shook his head. "No, no they genuinely weren't happy, but they were lying to themselves that they were. You can tell by the..." He stopped and looked up from the screen. I followed his eyes; he was staring at Maxwell. "Oh."

"What?" I asked, looking up at him. He had a blank look about him, but there was an element of shock.

"It's a message," he murmured to himself before bolting over to the bodies and going through the pockets. Someone on the police force shouted at him, but he ignored them, too focused on whatever his mind had picked up on. Luckily for him, Lestrade was there and kept the officers away.

Though, he wasn't pleased when Sherlock grabbed my arm and motioned for me to run. Sherlock would fill him in.

Eventually.

I still didn't - and don't - know what he had seen, and he wasn't ready to let me in on what it was. He did however show me the notes. Maxwell and Eve each had a small slip of paper in their pockets.

"Names are important, and only one left; I believe you already know who that will be," I read aloud once we were a safe distance away. "Do they mean Chloe Jenkins?" I asked.

"Of course they do," Sherlock replied dismissively and passed me the other note.

"Of course," I muttered before reading the words. "There is no greater treasure than love, but that's not true. I have a treasure, locked safe as a glove and waiting for you. These two lovers, Maxwell and Eve, they go together as... well, you'll see," I read before looking at him and saying what I knew he was waiting for. "I don't understand."

"It's a clue, and taunting one," Sherlock answered, and I noticed his pace increase. "We need to find out what bank they used."

"Why?" I called, but Sherlock had broken into a sprint and he showed no signs of slowing down.

It didn't take long to find the right location.

Safety deposit box.

"Where else would you lock up a treasure?" Sherlock had said, sounding almost as though he were slightly disappointed in me for not guessing it.

There was only one item inside the deposit box; a small duffel bag. Sherlock grabbed it and I thanked the teller before we ran out once again.

We didn't open it until we got back to the flat. I'm starting to wonder if there are body parts mixed in with the sour milk as well.

I had a feeling Sherlock already knew what the bag contained. When he did finally unzip it and reveal the contents, he smiled. Two bags lay inside, and a series of smaller bags inside those. One held the finger tips, the other held the syringes. Each were individually packaged, and labelled.

A note lay on top.

"One of these things is not like the other. Can you figure out which?" Sherlock read, a smile still lingering at his lips. It was a challenge. If there is one thing in the world that Sherlock Holmes cannot resist, it's a challenge. He's an idiot for that.

We're going to the lab now; he's just finished examining the bags for fingerprints. None, as expected, were found.

It's our move; I hope we're close to a checkmate.

-Dr. John Watson


	7. Blog Entry: August 16, 2010

A/N: One chapter to go after this. Have you figured part of it out?

* * *

August 16, 2010

Chloe Jenkins was found. Homeless, missing finger tips, frozen; exactly like the others. She had a note, of course. _Age before beauty, youngest to oldest, stuck together forever. This is your final piece._

No idea what it means.

I had thought that they were being abducted and being forced to inject one another. Turns out, this wasn't true. We spent a long time at the lab. There wasn't much for me to do, and Sherlock wasn't much company as he examined each and every one of the finger tips. Based on Elaine Smith's finger tips, she was injected into her right hand. Everyone else was injected into their left hands. Testing is being done to confirm this, and Lestrade doesn't believe it, but Sherlock believes that the victims _injected themselves!_

Why? I don't know. Nothing makes sense anymore. I have a feeling Sherlock has this a lot clearer in his head. No, actually, I don't have a feeling, I _know_ he has this clearer in his head. Ever since the appearance of Maxwell and Eve, he's been so quiet. I don't think it's scared him - I'm not sure he knows what being _scared_ really is - but it's quieted him. He ignores Lestrade, though that's not new, but he barely speaks to me. He loves to talk things out. For whatever reason, he's not anymore. He spends his time locked up in his head, and it scares _me _to think of what's got him this way.

He's still enjoying it, though. You can tell from the look in his eyes. He's spooked, but loving it.

Sherlock's just pinning up the note, as well as putting a pin in to mark where she was found. There's so many pins up there now, marking their disappearances and where the bodies were found. From this angle, it looks a little odd, almost like a letter.

Bloody hell!

Sherlock just took off.

I'm following him, though I'm sure he wants me to.

If I don't update in a few days, you know how I'll be found then.

-Dr. John Watson


	8. Blog Entry: August 17, 2010

August 17, 2010

What a night. I'm glad to be back in the flat, even if the smell of that _experiment_ is still lingering. I don't think we'll be rid of that for a while, even though the source has been taken care of.

I left off rather abruptly, so here's what happened. I was writing, when I noticed that the pins on the map made a letter. Three guesses as to what letter they formed.

The moment Sherlock saw it, the 'S', he muttered, "come get me," and took off.

"Where are you going?" I called after him.

"Just need some air. Say hi to Sarah!"

First off, I didn't have any plans with Sarah. He knew that. Secondly, since when does he say things like _say hi to Sarah?_ He doesn't give a damn about being polite, and he doesn't care what she thinks of him. I may not have his mind, but I worked this out. He didn't ask me to come because he wanted me to follow him. I didn't know why at the time, but he wanted to give the appearance of being alone.

I've always wanted to say, "Follow that cab!"

We stopped, and once outside the cab I could hear the water rushing nearby. There was a bridge not too far away, and it wasn't hard to make out Sherlock's form standing on it.

I managed to get close to the bridge without being seen. It was dark around the bridge, though the bridge was lit; that was an advantage I used. I watched Sherlock carefully. Another figure came into sight and walked slowly towards him. Female, with long dark hair.

"Sherlock Holmes," the voice sounded pleased. "I had hoped you'd solve my little puzzle."

"You murdered nine people just to get my attention," he stated coldly.

"Now, you can't prove that _I _killed them," she smirked, slinking closer. Something in her voice sent a chill down my spine. "There isn't a shred of evidence connecting me to them. And you had fun solving my puzzle." She was only a few feet from him now. In the dim light, I could see her hair colour; Auburn. Now the picture of Maxwell and Eve made sense! It had been a message for Sherlock. Maxwell had naturally straight, blonde hair according to every picture on the camera. When we found him, it was dark, and definitely not straight. "Just as much fun as I had setting it up for you."

He didn't answer, but kept his same emotionless stare fixed on her.

"Ah, you did," her voice was sultry, as though she were trying to seduce him. Good luck to her with that. Sherlock is possibly the one man incapable of ever being seduced. "I thought you might-"

"You killed nine people," he stated again.

"Everyone dies, Sherlock. May I call you Sherlock?" She asked, sounding almost sweet. "In death, everyone is the same, whether they were wealthy or..." She chuckled. "_Homeless._ Almost as though we're levelled out._" _She held out her hand, examining her fingers.

"Who are you?" He asked, and she smiled.

"Wren," she answered simply. "And it's not as though I killed those with the will to live – now, I'm not saying I did kill them," she added, "but if I were to know of their deaths, you might say they were aided."

"The bridge," I heard him say. "That's the link. Every one of the victims was depressed. They all came here with the intentions to jump. You found them. Each of them had life insurance; if they were to be murdered, money would go to their families, is that right?" He knew it was. He just enjoyed her confirmations.

"That is the logical conclusion one would come to," she agreed, twisting a ring she wore on her smallest finger. "Murder's not reallly my style; creating puzzles is. You see, Sherlock, what if they agreed? What if they injected themselves with the poison? I merely helped them with their wishes. Though, as I've said, there isn't anything that can point to me. Not that you'll call the authorities, not on _me,_ anyways."

"Why?"

She chuckled. "Because, it takes a lot to get your attention, Sherlock, and this was exciting, for both of us." She took a step forwards. "You're not the kind for relationships, I can tell. That's fine, because frankly, neither am I. They're dull." She took another step forwards, put a hand on his shoulder and lightly kissed his cheek. Sherlock didn't move; he barely blinked. "I can make things exciting every now and then. Remember Sherlock," she ran her hand along his jaw, "you're a lot of things, but you're still just a man."

He grabbed her wrist suddenly. "And you remember, _Wren_," he hissed her name, "you're still just a woman."

She winced a bit, but quickly allowed her smirk to return. "Indeed I am." He released her hand, and she turned and walked away. "Farewell, Sherlock. I'm sure we'll meet again soon. I look forward to it."

Somehow, I have a feeling that Sherlock does too.

I had questions later when we met up again, and he had plenty of answers, as well as plenty of remarks for me to start thinking on my own. How did he know to go out to the bridge? It was in the center of the large 'S' formed on the map. How'd he know that she'd be there? Her final clue:

Age before beauty - Chloe, Odette, Melanie, Elaine

Youngest to oldest - Geoffrey, Edgar, Tony

Forever together - Maxwell and Eve

She was right, of course. Sherlock didn't go to the authorities, not exactly. Wren had slipped him a note with her accomplices, and he had reported them, as well as promising Lestrade that the deaths would stop. Her accomplices had never seen her. As she'd told Sherlock, there was nothing that connected _her_ to anything. Only he, she and I know the truth, and it

* * *

"Writing another blog?" Sherlock asked, startling his friend.

John looked up and smiled thinly. "Yeah, just following orders; blogging about normal life."

Sherlock sniffed. "You've been blogging regularly. Normal life is quite boring, John. No one wants to read about _that._"

John stared at his computer screen, and managed a small laugh. "Yeah. Right." For a moment, his hand lingered over the 'delete' key. Before he could change his mind, he pressed it.

* * *

August 17, 2010

The killers were caught thanks to a tip Sherlock managed to pick up. Lestrade's got them all in custody. Though, they can't really be charged for murder as the victims all administered the fatal poison willingly and on their own. I'm not sure how things will turn out.

I found the source of that wretched smell. He had hidden it beneath the floorboards. _The floorboards!_ He said something about monitoring the progressing of the smell as they rotted, but I think he was just trying to get to me.

He said he knows a nice place for dinner, and is putting on his scarf. I think he wants to make it up to me; not because it would be a nice thing to do, but because he doesn't like it when I'm angry with him. I'm not _interesting_ then because I tend to go out or I don't talk to him.

_This _is my life now, and _this_ is about as normal as it gets.

-Dr. John Watson


End file.
